The command was followed by the sound of descending footsteps, on which Thorndyke ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the superintendent and me. We met the descending party on the landing, opposite a window, and here we all stopped, gazing at one another with mutual curiosity. The man who accompanied the constable looked distinctly alarmed--as well he might--and somewhat hostile. “Who put that smoke-rocket in the hall?” Miller demanded fiercely. “And why didn’t you come down when you heard us ringing the bell?” “I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man replied sulkily, “or what business this is of yours. Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?” “In your house?” repeated Thorndyke. “Then you will be Mr. Elliott?” The man turned a startled glance on him and replied angrily: “Never you mind who I am. Get out of this house.” “But I do mind who you are,” Thorndyke rejoined mildly. “I came here to see Mr. Elliott. Are you Mr. Elliott?” “No, I’m not. Mr. Elliott is abroad. If you like to send a letter here for him, I will forward it when I get his address.” While this conversation had been going on, I had been examining the stranger, not without curiosity. For his appearance was somewhat unusual. In the first place, he wore an unmistakable wig, and his shaven face bore an abundance of cuts and scratches, suggesting a recently and unskilfully mown beard. His spectacles did not disguise a pronounced divergent squint of the left eye; but what specially caught my attention was the ear--a large ear, lobeless and pointed at the tip like the ear of a satyr. As I looked at this, and at the scraped face, the squint and the wig, a strange suspicion flashed into my mind; and then, as I noted that the nose was markedly deflected to the left, I turned to glance at Thorndyke. “Would you mind telling us your name?” the latter asked blandly. “My name is--is--Johnson; Frederick Johnson.” “Ah,” said Thorndyke. “I thought it was Manford--James Manford, and I think so still. I suggest that you have a scar on the right side of your forehead, just under the wig. May we see?” As Thorndyke spoke the name, the man turned a horrible livid grey and started back as if to retreat up the stairs. But the constable blocked the way; and as the man was struggling to push past, Miller adroitly snatched off the wig; and there, on the forehead, was the tell-tale scar. For an appreciable time we all stood stock-still like the figures of a tableau. Then Thorndyke turned to the superintendent. “I charge this man, James Manford, with the murder of Stephan Bilsky.” Again there was a brief interval of intolerable silence. In the midst of it, we heard the street door open and shut, and a woman’s voice called up the stairs: “Whatever is all this smoke? Are you up there, Jim?”